Ashes Page 2

  Elizabeth pushed away from him. She would not be duped again. She would not allow her senses to be lulled by false words of devotion.

  As she straightened in his lap, she peered into the pools of his grey eyes, and for the first time she noticed the foggy shadows. His eyes had not changed in color, but a milky cloud had covered his once brilliant blue irises.

  She cupped his cheeks. “Are you blind?”

  “No,” he returned in a hushed voice. “I can see in low light, but I need sunshades whenever it’s bright.”

  Her brow creased. “What happened?”

  “I’ve been in the dark for a long time, Lizzie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not important.”

  Not important? He’d shunned her for five years, and it wasn’t important? He’d tortured her for five years and it wasn’t important?

  She scrambled off his lap, shoving his arm aside. “Go to hell, Ash!”

  “I’ve just returned from hell. Would you really send me back?”

  “With bells on,” she snapped, gathering the rest of his clothes from the floor. She then marched toward the door, unlatched it, and tossed his belongings into the passageway.

  If that scorned gesture didn’t demand he get out, she would scream for help, whatever the consequences.

  “Mama?”

  Elizabeth bristled. At the end of the passageway was a four-year-old girl, rubbing her pretty blue eyes and holding a stuffed rabbit, her raven-black locks tied in curling paper.

  “Hannah! What are you doing out of bed?”

  Elizabeth rushed toward her daughter, shielding her with her body, but the astute child glanced around her mother—and observed the half-naked man standing in the doorframe.

  “Is he here for a tea party, Mama?”

  Oh, God. She had told her daughter adults had late-night tea parties and midnight balls, and it was inappropriate for little girls to attend such events. In that way, Hannah never saw a courtier. Or suspected anything was amiss if she heard a sound, like a male voice.

  “Yes, sweet. He’s … a friend.”

  Elizabeth had hoped to chuck Ashley from the house before morning. But now …? What was she going to do now?

  “Why are his clothes on the floor, Mama?”

  She burned with shame and fumbled for an appropriate answer, but words deserted her.

  “I’m afraid the mess is my fault,” said Ash, voice taut as he collected his discarded apparel. “I spilled tea all over my shirt and coat and your mama offered to wash my garments.”

  “Oh,” said Hannah, then yawned. “I’m tired, Mama. Will you tuck me in bed? Nice and tight?”

  She tweaked the child’s button nose. “So the bed bugs don’t bite, I promise.”

  As soon as Hannah was safe in the nursery, Elizabeth returned to her bedroom, heart in her throat. She girded her muscles in anticipation of a row and entered the chamber where Ash paced in swift strides.

  He stopped for a second, glared at her, then treaded some more, his hands entwined at his back.

  “How dare you?” he seethed, his muscles flexing. “How dare you entertain jakes in my house with my daughter down the fucking hall?”

  She wasn’t surprised he’d inferred Hannah was his daughter; that he’d not even suspected one of her courtiers might be the sire. Hannah was the right age, after all. And she was the spitting image of her father. But to condemn her after he’d deserted her? Pregnant, at that?

  Elizabeth stalked toward him and slapped him across the cheek with all her might. “You hypocrite.”

  He stared at her, truly astounded. “When have I ever whored? When have I ever had a mistress? Hypocrite!” he shouted back at her.

  The tears in her eyes burned. “I had no choice, Ash.”

  “Liar!”

  “Go back to hell where you belong!”

  “And leave my daughter in this brothel?” He growled, “Never.”

  Elizabeth was strapped for air, her head spinning. He would take Hannah? He would take Hannah away from her? “No.”

  No. No. No.

  And yet, the law recognized him as the parent, not her. If he wanted Hannah, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it—except kill him. He was already legally dead so what was the harm?

  Elizabeth swiped the poker off the ground, wielding it like a sword. “I won’t let you take my daughter. Or my house. Or me.” She slashed through the air, but he evaded the blow. “You destroyed me once, Ash. Never again.”

  She sliced the air again, missing him.

  “You’re mad, Lizzie.”

  “I’m protecting my daughter, you cur.”

  After a third strike, Ash maneuvered his body sidelong and wrested the poker from her hands. He threw the metal into the fire, making it impossible for her to recover the weapon without suffering severe burns.

  “No!” she screamed, thrashing as he wrapped his arms around her midriff.

  “Hold still, woman.”

  “Curse you! Curse you!”

  He rattled her. “Stop it, Lizzie. Or we’ll both go into the fire.”

  She gasped for breath, winded. He squeezed her until she settled in his embrace. “No,” she moaned. “You can’t have Hannah.”

  “I can’t leave her here, either,” he said in a rough vein. “It’s not right, Lizzie.”

  “I had to do it, Ash,” she lamented, sinking toward the floor. “I had to save her.”

  Ashley scooped her in his arms and carried her to the bed, setting her on the mattress. He pushed aside the wild tethers of her hair with unexpected tenderness.

  She was delirious with grief, groaning with torment. Ash left her for a moment, then returned with a crystal tumbler. He propped her head with his hand and siphoned the fiery brandy down her sore throat.

  Setting the glass on the nightstand, he kneeled at the bedside. “What happened, Lizzie?”

  “How can you ask me that?”

  His brow furrowed before he shook his head. “Sleep.”

  “I will not sleep.” As the brandy unraveled her tangled thoughts, Elizabeth dragged herself toward the pile of cushions and sat upright. “I will not give you a chance to take Hannah away from me. I am her mother. She believes you dead, Ash.” Her voice cracked, “I believed you dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Why?” she croaked. “Why did you leave me?”

  When she’d thought his death a tragic happenstance, she’d endured the agony. But he had left her of his own accord—and that truth burned worse than any fires of hell.

  “I didn’t leave you, Lizzie. I was taken prisoner.”

  She meshed her lips together and clambered off the bed. “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, then don’t insult me with tall tales.”

  “It is the truth.”

  She whirled around, arms akimbo. “You’re the assistant to the Foreign Secretary. You negotiate with and entertain diplomats and ambassadors. Who snatched you off the front steps of the Foreign Office? Napoleon?”

  “Yes.”

  She balked. “Balderdash.”

  Ashley sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, he didn’t abduct me right off King Street, but I was apprehended in France.”

  “I buried you. You had been trampled by horses in a riding accident.”

  “You buried a double. A beggar off the streets, I suspect. The Foreign Office would never reveal where I was or what I was doing in France. The war was still raging then, Lizzie.”

  Her heart thundered as she listened with growing panic. “No.”

  He lifted his rueful eyes. “I have a confession to make, Lizzie. I didn’t always host diplomats and ambassadors. As you know, I speak perfect French. And on occasion, I was asked to complete an assignment, to do fieldwork.”

  “You mean spy?”

  “Aye.”

  She took a step back, her mind reeling. She remembered their last night together; how he had promised her he’d be away o
n routine, diplomatic business.

  “Not to worry, luv. I’ll be home soon.”

  And he nipped her lower lip in assurance—or perhaps distraction—but she wasn’t distracted.

  “Two months, Ash? I can’t bear the thought of being apart from you for so long.” She shuddered in his arms, a coldness already seeping into her veins. “How will I endure the time without you?”

  “Oh, Lizzie.” He dropped his head and kissed her with ravenous want. “I will suffer without you, as well, but I must carry out my duty.”

  Elizabeth covered her quivering mouth with her palm. They had conceived Hannah that night. And Ash had left the next day, galivanting across the continent, knowing he might be captured or killed, and yet he’d made no provisions for her or any babe she might have, the bastard.

  “I was locked in a cell for five years,” he went on. “There was no window, no light. I had food and nothing else. I thought I would go mad at times.” His fingers trembled. “But I thought of you, Lizzie. I exercised and I ate and I dreamed of you. You saved my life.”

  “And you destroyed mine.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” she rasped, shaking her hand. “I will not forgive you.”

  He dropped his head. “You won’t forgive me because I hurt you? Or because you don’t want to give up your wanton ways?”

  Her nostrils flared. “You son of a—”

  “I see the chest of jewels, Lizzie. I can never give you such riches. I’m the second son of a viscount. I have no inheritance. I have my diplomatic work, that’s all. It’s a handsome salary … but not enough for you, I see.”

  “You see nothing, Ash!” She grabbed the chest and dumped the wretched gold and precious stones across the rug. “I had to become a courtesan to survive, to save Hannah.”

  His expression hardened. “Why didn’t you tell me about the babe?”

  “I didn’t know I was pregnant, you ass.”

  He stormed off the bed. “Why whore, then? I left you everything, Lizzie. Enough money to live a comfortable life—with or without a babe.” He scooped a fistful of jewels, crunching them in his hand with such vigor, spots of blood seeped through the trinkets. “You didn’t have to sacrifice your body!”

  She gnashed her teeth. Had he gone daft in that jail cell? “You left me nothing, Ash!” She stalked toward the writing desk and removed several sheets of crumpled paper from the drawer. “Here.”

  He dropped the jewelry; it clattered to the floor. “What is this?”

  She shoved the document flat against his hypocritical chest. “Your bequest.”

  Squinting, he leafed through the endowment. “Is this a jest?”

  “Hah! I thought that too, sitting in the solicitor’s office, hearing the man recount your will. I didn’t believe him, but he presented me with your signature.” She smacked his inky endorsement with her finger. “Is that your signature?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you left me with nothing.” The heartache and rage she’d experienced then, ravaged her again and she gasped for air before blasting, “If you weren’t already dead, I would have killed you myself. How could you leave me destitute, Ash? You know I suffered in the streets. You promised me everlasting love. Liar! Filthy liar!”

  Ashley dropped the papers, the foul sheets flittering to the ground like autumn leaves. He dragged her into his arms, buried his mouth in her tousled hair. “Good God, Lizzie. How could you think I would ever leave you in the streets again?”

  “How could I not?” she sobbed. “What else was I to think after hearing your testament?”

  “I don’t understand how …” He hardened. “It’s a forgery.”

  Ashley separated from her, leaving her cold and alone in the middle of the room, but he wasn’t livid with her, she sensed. The fury swirling in his eyes, the stiffness in his jaw was concentrated toward someone else, and he backed away, fisting and unfisting his palms until he bumped into the silk papered wall.

  “Ash?”

  “The solicitor,” he gritted. “He forged the document.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s all my fault,” said Ash, a groan rising from his breast. “I used the family solicitor when I composed my will. At the behest of my parents and a few extra coins in his pocket, he altered the document.”

  Elizabeth wiped her eyes with the feathery cuff of her wrapper. “Your parents never approved of our marriage. ‘An urchin and a lord?!’ your father had shouted when you’d announced our nuptials. But do you really think they would’ve bribed the solicitor?”

  “I do. I should have hired my own solicitor.” His broken eyes, filled with tiny red veins, locked with hers. “I will make him pay, Lizzie.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Ash. You can’t repair the past. It’s too late.”

  Her world had turned asunder after his death. And though the truth had finally come to light, it was impossible to restore the trust and intimacy they had once shared. He had lied about his work, endangered his life—and hers. She was a courtesan. Or had been. Ashley was her husband again. And she would not touch another man. They had to reconcile for Hannah’s sake. But there was no future for them.

  “I have a proposal, Ash. I will retire as a courtesan—tonight—and you will not take Hannah from me. In exchange, we’ll reside together in the house, keep separate bedrooms and raise our daughter together.”

  After a long, tense pause, he gathered his clothes and headed for the door. To search for another room, she supposed. He had not rejected her terms so she sighed with unbound relief.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped.

  As she slowly approached him, her nerves tingled. And when she reached him and sensed the heat stemming from his flesh, she almost collapsed in his embrace. But she maintained her firm composure, arched on her toes and pressed her lips against his flushed cheek.

  “Welcome home, Ash.”

  He remained silent, avoided her gaze and left the room.

  ~ * ~

  It wasn’t much of a homecoming, thought Elizabeth, strutting with restless energy, inundated with a thousand nagging thoughts. As she paced the room and trampled over the mess, she released a fagged breath—and more fresh tears.

  She crouched and gathered the papers, then stuffed the infernal jewels back inside the chest. She hated the sight of them. More than ever. A part of her wished Ash had never returned home.

  She had learned to survive without him, to experience life through the senses, not the heart. She thought she had come to terms with such an existence, that it’d suited her, even. But one second with Ash and she’d realized it was all an illusion.

  Her breast cramped with hopeless want. Mercy, she had missed him. How was she going to share a house with him and not touch him? How was she going to feign indifference toward him?

  What would they do as a family? Have tedious talks over breakfast? Take an occasional stroll through the park? Make just enough formal exchanges and public outings to deflate any gossip?

  Oh, God, how ugly!

  Elizabeth rocked her body in comfort. There on the floor, her world in tatters again, she wept like a babe until the ache in her chest lifted.

  There had to be a better way, she thought. Another way to co-exist without making a show of it: a disgraceful show. Even now, knowing Ash had settled somewhere down the hall, ignited a profound desire within her. A desire to return to the past, when they’d shared a fathomless bond and an unmatched longing for one another. But how? How to reconcile after so much time and hurt?

  They had both changed in immeasurable ways. They were strangers again. And she yearned for … a ghost.

  Her shoulders slumped. She yearned for an affinity that had perished five years ago.

  But might something new rise from the ashes?

  Her heart thundered at the smallest sliver of hope. Where had the idea come from? The impossible dream? She had learned long ago never to hope. It had saved her from disappointment and misadve
nture. It had protected her from the constant threat of pain.

  Was she mad? Reaching for Ash? He loathed her, surely. Even though he knew the real reason she had become a courtesan, he would never want her as his proper wife. She was also furious with him for being a spy and not telling her the dangers of such an occupation.

  And yet, her blood pounded with the ferocity of a steam engine. Before she committed herself to a lonesome pairing with her once beloved husband, she would learn if hope existed. Otherwise, the thought of “what if” would be an unbearable burden. It would break her in time.

  Elizabeth scrambled off the floor. She headed for the vanity and winced at her bedraggled reflection in the mirror. She dried her tears with a kerchief and combed her hair before pinching her cheeks, inducing a soft glow.

  After she’d straightened her wrapper, she left her chamber and slowly crossed the passageway, searching for Ash. When she spotted a light coming from under the door of a guest bedroom, she halted. A draft swirled around her, biting her toes, making her shudder. She felt like a frozen child in the streets of London again, praying for salvation. And then wise words came to her:

  He gives snow like wool,

  He scatters the frost like ashes.

  Her favorite psalm. She had not recited the verse in years. Might she and Ash, both alone and cold, find warmth together?

  Her hand trembling, she unlatched the door and entered the chamber. She glanced toward the bed. Empty. Next, her gaze traveled to the roaring blaze in the fireplace, flanked by massive andirons.

  Ash had settled in an armchair, a glass in his hand, his back toward her. He swirled the amber liquid in the tumbler, his attention transfixed on the snapping flames.

  Should she disturb him? she wondered. Or wait for the next day to …? In truth, she wasn’t sure what she would do. Talk with him? About what?

  Her thoughts deserted her when she spied the crests and valleys of his strapping profile. In silhouette, he seemed a dream. And she wondered if he might vanish into the smoke.

  “Why have you come, Lizzie?” he asked in a throaty drawl.

  She started at his unexpected request. His backside still positioned toward her, he had not seen her enter the room so he must have heard her, however light her steps. And her heart thumped a little harder knowing his senses were still concerted with hers, even after so many years apart.